remember that you can't save everyone
remember that you have to try
Luckily for Sunjata, Deimos was not an individual to pry; rather a vault, a cauldron, a vessel himself of nestled secrets and keys, cloaks and daggers for later theories and calculations – if the man didn’t have any yearnings to settle into constant, eternal winter, than he was entitled to meander along other preferences. But the Sword, the Reaper, still contorted in some frigid, frozen, glacial aspects, thrived along the beckoning, chilling winds, as if it were puncturing pieces of home, of blades driven into adversaries, of lakes that never froze, of hot springs’ fumes curling into puffs of warmth, of memories despite demises, despite separated lived, that still came back to him in dreams and in nightmares. He snorted at the fellow attuned, not the least bit bothered by the notions of dying in the tundra’s zeal; he’d already done it once. The inquiry sliding over him though indicated he’d come to a crossroads. He didn’t readily offer days spent as a monarch; his anointed family and loved ones seemed to do that on a regular basis for him, mostly because it’d been a trial, it’d been a tribulation, and it’d been something he’d either been ashamed of or exhausted by. “Yes,” he presided at first, fingers digging and dipping along the glass, swaying it back and forth in the palm of his hand, emptied, considering if he wanted to refill it again or just let everything absorb in its finality. “A King for a time too.” Before he died, before he returned to the earth as a soldier through and through once more, the constant regard for upheaval and oblivion never far behind. But there was no pride in these things, no sense of pompous, sovereign regard, almost a resigned fact of heavy crowns and titles, shoulders bearing, bearing, bearing with no sensation of ceasing.
out for vengeance
DEIMOS
